I am mortal, which shall last for as long as mortality does.  This picture is worth 1000 words, and my inadequate vocabulary consists of only 700, when it flows like mad rhythmic flow.  As long as I stick to this strict diet of self-unexceptance and broomstick lashing I will be back to my unattached, dramatic, self centered, self-conscious self in a matter of 10 songs, preferably emotional.  This room is roller coaster heaven, with colors and blurs like tongue twisted onomatopoeia.  Bang and smack that stick; inflict is hard like unsplintered would, which it once proclaimed aloud dangerous.  Burry my feet in sand and my head in clouds because this insecurity quivers knees and goosebumps skin with frightening tension.  Lasso my wrists and tie me down.  Then pull so tight it burns through my heart, pulling my legs toward the sky and revealing my sandy gallop.  Drench my white shirt with blood; wet T-shirt contest?  I am down on knees pleading, which reveals my cranium to all that wish exposure were so sweet of a mystical revenge, only if it were perfection imagined to a T.  Formation screams echoes through courtyards of finished souls.  They align like stones placed with care; this is where my hand belongs.  Twist off the cap as the interior soul bubbles to the surface of my teary eyes, now and forever I realize.